Clean Sweep

by Michael J. Clark

  Chapter Three

  The January cold had played its usual havoc with the surface breaks on Highway 75. Paulie Noonan felt the thumps as the tired Econoline laboured to maintain the posted limit. The beat was familiar. He feigned the need to hold his fist to his chest, which would have been more than appropriate, considering his last Buick supper of beef jerky and Gatorade. He felt his heart beat through his torn woolen glove. It was keeping time with the tires below. Paulie figured it was a good sign.

  The two rode in silence, watching the snow dance in serpentine fashion on the highway, bathed in the glow of the one properly aimed headlamp. They slowed as they pulled into Morris, the weathered Stampede sign greeting them. The highway snow gates were still open, about as much of a green light as one could expect on any rural stretch of highway. Tommy Bosco spiked the brakes to comply with the town speed limit. The lone traffic light flashed in cautionary yellow. Morris slept, the way any small town sleeps: content, cozy, and forever unlocked.

  “We could sure clean up here tonight,” said Paulie as he eyeballed the side streets. He should have buckled up before he said it. Tommy slammed on the brakes, launching Paulie into the dash. The blood from Paulie’s nose flowed quick and crimson. He looked up at Tommy, watching as he reached into the side door pocket for something. Oh shit, thought Paulie, this was a double cross! A free escape was little competition for two thousand dollars to make sure you were dead. That was the going rate in Winnipeg; they didn’t call it the Wholesale Capital of Canada for nothing. Paulie closed his eyes and waited for the slug to hit.

  Something hit Paulie hard, but it was definitely not a bullet. It was something a lot bigger, and a lot flatter. He opened his right eye a smidge, just in time for the second volley to land. Did he just hit me with a book? Paulie had been hit with a lot of things over the years — crowbars, gun butts, even an old chrome toaster by his ex-wife, but literature? This was new, and it still hurt like a motherfucker.

  The swatting was interspersed with Tommy’s commentary on the misguided choices that still populated Paulie’s thoughts. “You-stupid-fucking-piece-of-shit-fucking-home-in-vasion-mother-fucker-un-grate-ful-fucking . . .” Tommy ran out of labels, finally stopping the barrage around volley twenty-two or twenty-three. Paulie had been holding up his arms in a protective defence since volley nine. Tommy threw the book onto the engine doghouse, launching a half-empty cup of Timmy’s double-double onto Paulie’s lap. Tommy angrily slapped the Econoline into gear, so much so that he didn’t realize it was in low until he was up to fifty. The resulting correction was just as angry, finding neutral. The engine revved hard as Tommy calmed down enough to engage drive. Paulie wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking at the book. It was old and black with a leather face, or at least some reasonable facsimile. Paulie remembered where he had first seen it, at The Guiding Light two days before.

  ~

  Church hadn’t exactly been on Paulie’s to-do list in the last few years, thanks to all the whippings he had received from the nuns in Catholic school. The same could be said for higher education. Paulie had decided to fight back one day, cold-cocking the Mother Superior. It wasn’t exactly the path to becoming valedictorian, or making it past grade eight.

  The skid row mission block on Princess Street was something that Paulie would drive by at least once a day. He never thought that he would be opening the battered double doors to The Guiding Light at a time of personal need. Tommy had been running the place for about three years. It used to be called The Light and the Way, when it was run by a former Salvation Army Captain by the name of Bellows. The name change was somewhat required. Bellows had been running a steady string of teenage male prostitutes out the back door. Worse yet was his penchant for sampling the goods, usually after filling them up with ecstasy. He’d probably still be in business, if that one fourteen-year-old runaway hadn’t run through the plate-glass window of the mission, naked, into the path of the downtown express bus. Dead kids tend to ruin everything, and right quick.

  The former plate-glass window opening was mostly plywood now, with a smaller window that Tommy had received as a donation from a Mennonite community group. At least it let some light in. Too bad it couldn’t let the smell out. It hit Paulie like it hits anyone who walks into a skid row mission for the first time.

  Homemade benches of two-by-four construction served as seating, each one painted in whatever mis-tint paint colour Tommy could swing for free, or close to it. The food counter was doling out the gruel that they could muster for the week. The health department inspectors were hearing stories that most of the food at the Light had been ‘pre-owned.’ Even in the business of the skid row mission, there was a pecking order. The missions with Steering Committees, a Board of Directors, and an advertising budget would get the plum donations. These were the ones with custom-mixed paint, TV commercials, and media-savvy staff. The Guiding Light was still the home of the dead underage male prostitute, even with the name change and the new window. Most of the food inspectors turned a blind eye to the obvious infractions. The leftovers were probably getting scraped off the plates at one or more of the Chinatown restaurants, clustered closely together near Winnipeg City Hall. A couple of the cocaine dealers on Corydon had bistros as fronts, with plenty of leftover pasta at the end of the day. They were happy to do Tommy a solid, thanks to his years of faithful delivery service, and his refusal to testify against them after the double-cross. This unique fusion of Chinese and Italian resulted in a hardy stew, a touch overcooked in an effort to kill whatever bacteria might still be floating around from the previous night.

  Paulie had asked one of the kitchen staff where Tommy was. “Cop or con?” said the toothless ladle handler, not even looking up from the task at hand. Paulie affirmed the latter and was pointed in the direction of the lopsided staircase.

  There were only twelve beds on the second floor, with used office wall partitions on stands for some measure of privacy. The Guiding Light wasn’t an official halfway house; it was more of a halfway-out-of-the-Life house. At some point, every resident had been in the system. They had gone through the rehabilitation programs, even completed stints in registered halfway houses. Most had found steady work and were in the process of rebuilding their lives when they called on Tommy. Sometimes the Light was simply a safer safe house, waiting for things to blow over, or waiting for the criminal element who had started the whole mess to get arrested.

  At the back of the sleeping quarters was Tommy’s space, a modified apartment of sorts, culled from three former offices. He had knocked out the walls between them and painted over the glass windows for some degree of sanctum. Two old couches looked upon a broken console television set with a cheap plasma-screen TV sitting on top. A red metal bunk bed stood at the opposite end. There was no top mattress; just a sheet of plywood in its place, stacked with office filing boxes for the Light. An oversized futon was jammed into the space of the bottom bunk. It was a far cry from Tommy’s Tuxedo bungalow on Park Boulevard. He had called it the Boscalow. They still told stories about the parties.

  Paulie had just lowered himself onto the couch when Tommy entered. He was wearing a thrift store–fresh houndstooth sportscoat, still in good shape, but at least twenty years south in style. The black knit turtleneck beneath it was a valiant attempt at fashion. With the jeans, and maybe a pipe, Tommy could have passed for a university professor, if it wasn’t for the scar. He was holding his vintage copy of the King James Bible, the same one that would be used to swat Paulie with later in the week. He tapped the brakes momentarily when he saw Paulie on the couch. The look on Paulie’s face was clear to a reformer of convicts; I am royally screwed.

  “Hey, Paulie,” said Tommy, as he headed towards his makeshift filing cabinet. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” Tommy started to rummage around in one of the filing boxes, out of Paulie’s line of sight. Paulie reached inside his jacket. As he went to retrieve the item, he heard the telltale cocking of t
he Smith & Wesson .38. He looked at Tommy and down the barrel. “It’s just my flask, man. Can’t I have a drink?”

  “Let’s see it,” said Tommy, motioning with the barrel to confirm the tale. Paulie slowly removed the flask, a cheap stainless steel job, filled with equally cheap rye. Tommy lowered the barrel. “Don’t start reaching into your jacket around here,” said Tommy. “You’re bound to give a guy the wrong idea.” Paulie took a large slug of the mix, leaning back into the couch to calm his nerves. He was about to tell Tommy the reason for the visit when there was a tap at the door.

  “Tommy?” said the voice. “It’s time for the eight o’clock.”

  Tommy returned the revolver to the box marked Taxes. The gun had been empty for as long as it had been in his possession, though there was no need to let Paulie know that. “I’ll be right down, Cindy.” He reached up on the post of the bunk bed to retrieve a homemade wooden cross with a leather-laced necklace. It looked like the type of item that might have been sanded and lacquered in the grade-nine wood-shop class that Paulie had missed out on. He grabbed the King James, almost seeming as though he would leave Paulie in peace. “C’mon, you evil fuck,” said Tommy. “Let’s go save your sorry ass.”

  Paulie reluctantly followed as Tommy descended the stairs. On the wall, he noticed a poster of what he thought was Jesus Christ. It was a full-sized blow-up of the Buddy Christ, from the movie Dogma. Paulie didn’t know the movie, but the irreverent thumbs-up pose of the teacher was enough to make any former Catholic boy smile.

  Tommy rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, where the hungry homeless began to clap in pitiful unison. He headed to the opposite end of the hall as the ovation continued. Paulie watched as Tommy climbed up on a makeshift stage. Behind them hung a hand-knitted cobalt blue quilt with the words “God Don’t Make No Trash” spelled out in shimmering gold fabric.

  Tommy motioned for the crowd to calm themselves as he switched on the microphone. “Alright, simmer down now so we can save you fuckers.” The shock value commentary drew the expected laugh of a comedy club audience, not a God-fearing congregation. Tommy began his makeshift homily, with little use of the King James.

  “For those of you visiting us for the first time, welcome to The Guiding Light. We’re not your regular Charlie Church deal, and we’re not trying to be. We’re not going to give you some bullshit answers about why God has fucked you in the ass. You fucked yourself in the ass, and that’s why you’re here.” Paulie expected a gasp from the audience. Instead, Tommy’s sermon was met by applause and cheers. “God loves you,” said Tommy. “Jesus loves you. The apostles, saints, and all those angels upstairs love you. But they can’t fix your shit. That’s your job.”

  The applause continued as Tommy held up his Bible. “There’s a lot of good shit in this book. Shit that can help you figure shit out. This book will give you the answers.” Then Tommy slammed the King onto the podium. “But YOU’VE got to do the fucking work!” The enthusiasm continued unabated as Paulie found himself compelled to join in the applause. “You wanna know what Jesus would do? Jesus would tell you to go out and DO something!” Tommy scanned the crowd. “Who worked today? Show me some hands!” About a third of the room raised their arms to confirm. Tommy held up an old Heinz Ketchup can, the style used in the food service trade. “Then fill ’er up, you fuckers!”

  There was no hymn for this community offering. Instead, the buzzy speakers of the PA system started up with a Doobie Brothers standard, “Jesus Is Just Alright.” Paulie smiled as the parishioners hoisted the can through the room, throwing in whatever spare change they could, or whatever could be spared from their budget allotment for malt liquor or the tried-and-true paint thinner that the shadier area merchants would sell out the back door. It cost the same as a two-six of rye, though many of the attendees would argue that the thinner was the better high.

  Paulie was starting to feel a little high himself that night, a feeling that even his life was still valuable enough to save. Tommy kept up the blue sermon for another hour. When it was done, he spent another hour-and-a-half in fellowship with his guests. Chewing on a day-old donut, Paulie watched Tommy from across the room. As Tommy spoke to his parishioners, Paulie noticed how he would connect glances with him. They seemed to assure him that everything would be alright. Just like Jesus.

  As the semi-permanent residents headed up to bed, Tommy motioned to Paulie and said, “Help me with the bleachers. We’ve got to set up the folding tables for breakfast.” The tables were old church cast-offs, each one feeling as heavy as a pair of stone tablets. Paulie thought that exhaustion might overtake him before he had a chance to explain his visit. On the eighth table, he dropped his end to get Tommy’s attention. “Tommy, gimme a minute here. I, I gotta ask you something.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I’ll get you out. How bad is the heat?”

  Paulie gave his best regional answer. “August long at Grand Beach.”

  Tommy put his end of the table down. “That’s pretty fucking hot. When can you jet?”

  “Whenever you say. I can lay low. Got the Roadmaster.”

  Tommy smiled. “The Royal Buick Hotel. Beats a Super 8 for sure.” He reached into his coat pocket and threw an item about the size of a half-deck of cigarettes. Paulie caught it and looked at the little black box with a knowing grin. “You gotta be kidding me. It actually works?”

  “Of course it works,” said Tommy as he walked over to Paulie, flicking the side-mounted power switch of the numeric pager to prove it. “It’s a Motorola.”

  Chapter Four

  After Tommy got nabbed at the border, the consensus amongst the local criminal community was that he would turn. It was nothing personal, just the obvious next step for anyone arrested on drug-trafficking charges. Having it all go down at an international boundary made it a sure thing. Tommy would turn, go into the U.S. federal system, spill the beans on the Minneapolis connection, and then get extradited back home for the Canadian mess. It would probably take a good eighteen months, depending on the backlog. They knew he’d be in protective custody on either side, making a jailhouse assassination difficult. There were other ways. There was Park Boulevard.

  While Tommy sat in a Federal office in Fargo, his seventeen-year-old son Jeremy thumbed his way through Grand Theft Auto on his PlayStation. The HRs were the first to fire, with three automatic assault rifles, through the picture window at the big screen’s glow. The sunken living room was like lying in a bathtub for protection, which was exactly how Jeremy had been coached. Jeremy had accepted the life as normal — a lot more normal than the wife swapping and swinger parties that his classmates’ parents indulged in. He waited for the fog of upholstery dust to settle before he poked his head up. He figured it was over. He didn’t know that the Minneapolis contingent was coming down the boulevard from the opposite direction. Their spray of bullets took out the rest of the picture window, the table lamps, and Jeremy’s skull. Tommy didn’t cry when they told him. He knew that he was the one who had pulled the trigger. He didn’t think of revenge or packaging them all up for the respective Feds. He thought of Jeremy’s skull blown wide open, the spray of his brain matter against the big screen as the Game Over script cycled over and over.

  The hidden cameras were a lot smaller than Tommy remembered, which is why he didn’t succeed with his shoelace hanging attempt while in holding. It was while he was restrained and doped up on better drugs than he could get on his own that he met the Padre. He couldn’t remember his name, or the scripture, or even the names of three of the apostles. What he did remember was how this Padre spoke. It wasn’t the typical God-has-a-plan stylings.

  He confirmed that it was as Tommy suspected; it was his fault entirely. “What are you going to do about it?” asked the Padre. Tommy offered the usual answers of retribution. The Padre responded with the King James, square across Tommy’s face.

 
“What are you going to do about it?” shouted the Padre, continuing his attack as Tommy flexed the restraints.

  “I’M GOING TO KILL THEM ALL!”

  “Wrong answer,” screamed the Padre, as he hit Tommy again with the thick hide. “What are you going to do about it?” Tommy tasted the blood from his nose. He felt his eyes beginning to swell. He didn’t want to kill anyone. He just wanted it all to stop. What Tommy wanted came out as an unintelligible whisper.

  “What did you say?” said the Padre, showing no sign of slowing. “I didn’t quite get that.”

  “I want it to stop.”

  “Stop what exactly?”

  “All of it.”

  “All of what?”

  Tommy mustered up what was left of his strength, and his dignity. “The fucking life!” he shouted. The Padre stopped mid-swing as Tommy began to sob and repeat his desire. “I want it to stop,” said Tommy. “I want it to stop for everybody. I don’t want anyone to feel this. Nobody should ever feel what this feels like. Nobody.”

  “Good,” said the Padre. He pulled out the homemade wooden cross, the same one that Tommy wore during his services. “My son made this for me, just before they got to him and his mother and his sister and the pizza guy who stumbled into the whole thing.” Tommy held the cross to his chest. This was no ordinary Padre. This was the man he would try to become.